Our Wicked Mistake (9 page)

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Authors: Emma Wildes

BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake
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“If I said yes, I do mind, would it stop you?” Eliza beth asked, her tone lofty, but there was a hint of a smile in her eyes.
At least she is glad to see me. It is something, if I can’t have anything else. Always we are aware of each other
.
Will she ever realize it?
“Stop me? Probably not,” he responded with an ir reverent grin.
“That is exactly what I thought, so I suppose we have little choice. Do we?”
Lady Amelia looked amused at the byplay. “I, for one, am delighted at your arrival, Mr. Hawthorne, because I think I see my husband coming this way. He is develop ing a tendency to hover, which I assume will pass as soon as he adjusts to the situation. In the meantime, however, I think my walk is being cut short. At least Elizabeth can continue.”
Sure enough, Alex St. James was walking toward them with long strides. “Lady Elizabeth, good after noon. Hawthorne.” Bareheaded, his dark hair and eyes a contrast to his wife’s delicate fairness, he took Lady Amelia’s hand, touched it to his mouth, and announced, “I’ve decided we’re going to Berkeley Hall. The country air will be pleasant.”
“Now?” The lady looked bemused.
“Your maid is packing for you.” He smiled in apology at Miles and Elizabeth. “I’m afraid I am going to steal her away from you. Will you excuse us?”
They watched as he steered Lady Amelia immedi ately toward a waiting curricle.
Mystified, Miles turned to Elizabeth. “What situa tion?”
“Oh, please, Miles, think about it for a minute.” His cousin didn’t take his proffered arm, but she did fall into step next to him. “Why would he want to whisk her off for some fresh country air?”
He dropped the arm with an inner resignation and frowned. “She’s newly married, of course.”
“Precisely.” Elizabeth looked at him, the corner of her mouth lifting.
He was a man, after all, and the first topic on his mind was not the specific results of the act of procreation, though the process of it did consume a lot of his attention. He caught on quickly enough, more from her high color than anything else. “Oh, I see. Good for St. James.”
“
That
is your reaction?” She made what could only be described as a snort of disgust. “I cannot see why he gets the credit for the conception.”
“I certainly hope the credit goes to him, as she is his wife.”
“You are deliberately missing my point.”
“If it is on the end of your barbed tongue, I’ve been cut by it often enough, thank you.”
“Miles.” She blew out a breath in a huff of outrage, but it was also a half laugh.
Was it perverse of him to love the way she said his name, especially when he’d needled her into that certain tone? Elizabeth was delectable when angry. Actually, to his frustrated misfortune, she was delectable all the time.
He elevated his brows. “I doubt we should be discussing this indelicate topic.”
“I have never understood how having a baby is indelicate.” She twirled her parasol and her brow furrowed as they strolled along. With unswerving logic, she pointed out, “It is how we all got here, after all.”
“Is that how it works?” he murmured dryly.
“As if
you
don’t know.” Her gaze was accusing. “Word has it you are becoming quite an expert on the subject.”
The acerbic tone of her voice held a note he wasn’t sure he recognized, and he could swear he knew every inflection and nuance. “What does
that
mean?”
“Your”—she obviously groped for a suitable word—“licentious ways have been noticed.”
He did his best to keep a neutral expression, but he wanted to laugh at her censorious observation. Besides, he didn’t have licentious ways. Occasionally he flirted a little, mostly to see if she was paying any attention to what he did at all. Until now, he didn’t know she had. “I see. I am surprised I am worthy of any gossip.”
“Worthy? No, I agree. Yet others aren’t quite so perceptive. I am supposed to bring Susanna Meyer to your attention.”
If she had been able to keep her voice even, he wouldn’t have experienced a small thrill of hope, which was something he usually denied himself with ruthless practicality.
He should deny it now.
But Elizabeth sounded . . . jealous.
Or was it his hopeful imagination?
Undoubtedly.
Jealous
was too strong a word.
Miffed
might work better.
“Who?” he asked with feigned perplexity, though he remembered the young woman well enough from their recent introduction and subsequent dance. Wide-eyed, breathless ingenues were not his preference, no matter the opulence of their bosom or father’s fortune.
No, for whatever reason, he was captivated by a silver-eyed, childish hoyden who had grown into a very provocative woman.
The slight breeze drifted a loose tendril of glossy hair across her smooth cheek in a languorous caress. “I am sure you recall her,” she said, her face just slightly averted as they walked. “She certainly remembers
you
.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, just to tease her. “Or at least one part of her . . . er . . . abundant anatomy.”
“It is just like you to say something so tasteless.” She stopped, rounding on him in derisive confrontation.
“I’m appalling,” he agreed softly, gazing into her remarkable eyes, at the moment the shade of a stormy summer sky. “A veritable scoundrel. How did you put it? Oh, yes, licentious.”
“Your female admirers don’t seem to know that yet.”
“I have female admirers?” Dangerous ground always, to taunt her, but he liked the reaction. It was
something
.
“It seems so. Do not ask
me
to explain it.” Her voice was lofty, and she resumed their leisurely pace.
A few steps behind, he indulged himself by admiring the gentle sway of her hips. Then he grinned and fol lowed. He wouldn’t miss the rest of this fascinating ar gument for the world.
Chapter Seven
 
 
 
T
he dinner was a long, boring affair full of political debates and social gossip, and as Luke finished his roast beef, expertly cooked and served with a luxurious sauce of wine and braised shallots, he reflected that at least the food was excellent. Masters had a decent wine cellar also; Luke had probably drunk a bottle of claret just himself.
Ill-advised, considering his mood.
It didn’t help to have Madeline sitting across the table, albeit four chairs down, next to a handsome blade named Morrow. She was dazzling this evening in a teal gown that complemented her flawless complexion and showcased her firm, high breasts.
He didn’t miss a detail, from the lace sewn strategically along the neckline of her gown to the simple pearl earrings and gold bracelet she wore. The lace, he thought in sardonic contemplation, hinted at silken, bared skin in a teasing way, and made the gown more modest—and at the same time more risqué—than it actually was. He guessed her taste was too refined to wear a gown that low-cut without the suggestive lace, but enjoyed the illusion of scandalous adventure.
Her dinner companion hadn’t missed that comparison either. The impudent young man alternated between surreptitiously ogling her décolletage and leaning over to whisper in her ear. Not that Luke particularly cared whom she chose to flirt with, but surely she could do better than that young cub.
Or he thought he didn’t care. After a few glasses of wine, he found perhaps he did.
The entire evening annoyed him. If it wasn’t for Elizabeth, he wouldn’t have agreed to come in the first place.
“Such pleasant weather we’ve been having, isn’t it, Lord Altea?”
He managed to wrest his attention from his wineglass long enough to look politely at the plump matron seated next to him. “Yes,” he said abstractly. “Very pleasant.”
Ye gods, had he really just said something so inane?
Lady Bunton, or Button, or whatever her deuced name might be—he’d been introduced, but couldn’t remember—leaned forward a conspiratorial distance. “So very brave of you to rescue Lord Fitch the other evening. I understand you single-handedly ran off an entire mob of footpads.”
He almost choked on his wine.
The ridiculous story was out of hand, but luckily, since the nefarious Fitch really didn’t seem to remember what happened and they now had the journal, thanks to Michael, Madeline was kept out of it. He risked another swift glance across the table, saw her gazing his direction, and quickly looked back at Lady B. “I’m afraid that’s an exaggeration, madam. I merely happened to notice him lying in the alley unconscious and took him home. No bravery involved.”
She beamed at him. “You are being too modest.”
Heaven help him. He gestured to have his wineglass refilled. To his relief, the dessert course arrived and Lady B was effectively diverted by chocolate pudding with hard sauce.
When their hostess announced it was time to retire to the drawing room for a round of charades, Luke knew with every fiber of his being that he could not endure an insipid moment of it. As the exodus began from the dining room, he quietly pulled Miles aside into a corner by the pedimented doorway. “Will you please escort my mother and Elizabeth home?”
“I take it the idea of watching Lady Helton act out parts of
Macbeth
doesn’t hold much appeal?” Miles grinned, but it turned into a grimace. “That was a rhe torical question, of course. Not for me either, if you want the truth. But I’ll be happy to see the ladies home safely.” Then in a very diplomatic, casual voice, his step cousin asked, “Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing.” A lie, but Luke wasn’t about to explain. “I’d just appreciate a reprieve from having to be so cial this evening. If I stayed, I feel certain I would put my fist through a wall. Bloody bad manners in polite company.”
“You have seemed a bit grim lately.” Miles’s gaze was not openly inquisitive, but Luke could feel the unsaid question.
“Ennui,” Luke said curtly.
“I see.” His cousin hesitated, and then said bluntly, “Oh, hell. I refused to meddle, and I still have no inten tion of prying, but just know Elizabeth is worried about you. To tell the truth,
I’ve
wondered what might be both ering you.”
He’d always liked Miles. Even when as children he and Elizabeth were running amok, causing havoc all over the estate, Luke had thought Miles basically a lev elheaded individual, a foil for his somewhat impulsive younger sister. At twenty two, Miles was venturing into business with a sound concept that had intrigued inves tors, Luke among them. He had no doubt his stepcousin was astute enough to be successful.
But he wasn’t at all in the mood for confidences, no matter how much he liked and trusted Miles. “The mood will pass,” he murmured negligently. “Tell her to worry instead about her own life. I am glad she’s enjoying the season, but she needs to eventually select a husband out of her many admirers. I haven’t noticed a preference yet for any of those eager gentlemen.”
A change in expression crossed Miles’s face. It was a flash, masked a moment later: a slight tightening of the mouth, a muscle twitch in his jaw. He said carefully, “With all the interested suitors, I am sure she will, but if
I
tell her to do so, keep in mind, it will be her inclination to do just the opposite.”
Luke might be battling his own demons, but he had started to wonder about Miles and Elizabeth. As far as he could tell, she was as of yet oblivious to the possibility that her cousin—who was not at all a cousin in any form except a distant connection by marriage—was no longer the rambunctious childhood companion, but a grown man who might not look at her with platonic indifference. In turn, she was no longer the mischievous hoyden with a tendency to drag him into all sorts of trouble.
As her guardian, Luke hoped
those
days were past. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Miles or Elizabeth, but together . . .
He might need to pay a little more attention.
But not tonight. His mother was there. She could play duenna. He needed to get away as soon as possible. Away from playacting and charades, away from matrons with an inflated and false sense of his heroic antics, away from temptation . . .
In regards to the latter, away from Madeline.
“You could be right. I’ll talk to Elizabeth myself.” His smile was wry. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to make my farewells to our host and gratefully slip away.”
Moments later he made his escape, going down the steps into the warm evening air, mercifully free of the dubious theatrical talents of the assembled party. He’d walked, as the evening was pleasant, and no sooner had he reached the street when he heard a breathless call.
“Luke. Wait, please.”
Madeline.
Damnation.
He knew her soft, lilting voice.
He halted, uttered an even more foul curse, and turned. He’d hoped to make it through the evening without ac tually having to speak to her, and with a little effort and because the hovering Morrow monopolized her, he’d managed it.

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